


Staring Down the Sun

by fayegrove



Category: British Actor RPF, Tom Hiddleston - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Crying, Depression, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Forgiveness, Hurt/Comfort, Past Relationship(s), Tearjerker
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-17
Updated: 2012-10-17
Packaged: 2017-11-19 10:26:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/572273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fayegrove/pseuds/fayegrove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Your heart has been broken by the man who once held and then discarded it. Can you bring yourself to trust again?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Staring Down the Sun

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the song "Blinded (When I See You)" by Third Eye Blind.
> 
> _“The door opens. Tom stands rooted to the spot, his breathing escalating as he pushes it quietly forward and peers into the bathroom. Tendrils of steam brush against him as they escape into the hallway, leaving behind a blurry mirror and the fog glass of your shower. He can distinguish your silhouette and the mere sight of you twists his insides into a vice. He stands there, waves of mingled emotion washing over him as he can only gaze at you from behind the barrier, his thoughts swirling around his head in a daze."_
> 
> Also on [Tumblr](http://tomsdarling.tumblr.com/post/33779206841/staring-down-the-sun).

Tom hesitates in front of the door to your flat, his hand hovering in a fist outstretched mid-knock. For a fraction of a second he contemplates turning away, no harm done, but then his knuckles are rapping on the wood and his hand drops quickly to his side, both of them burrowing deep into his jean pockets. When no answer comes, he pulls out one hand to knock again, louder this time. Silence is the only response and, disappointed, Tom turns to head back down the stairs.

Then he stops, staring unseeingly down the hallway. He half turns his head towards the door, his heart racing as he contemplates the forbidden urge that has overcome him. He knows that he shouldn’t, he knows that you will be furious, but he cannot help himself. Slowly he reaches into his pocket and pulls out his keyring. His eye finds the old-fashioned brass key and he clenches it in his fist.

Without being aware of moving his feet, Tom finds himself inserting the key and twisting it. There is a click and he places his hand on the knob, turning it and pushing the door open slightly. At first he half-expects you be sitting on your sofa with a book in hand and to chuck it at his head at the intrusion, but there is no one in your living room. Silently he steps inside and shuts the door behind him, rehatching the lock as he does so.

The place looks much the same as he remembers. Your furniture is all exactly the same, save for the new desk you had since acquired and placed near the window. Upon it are the various statues you had collected across your lifetime, and seeing them again after so long brings a smile to Tom’s face. He recognizes most of them and recollects being present when had you found many of them in boutiques and antique shops around London. You had always had an itch to visit the world outside of England, and Tom’s smile fades as he remembers all too well how often he had thought of you as he he'd traveled the globe.

Then, off to the side of the room on your bookshelf, he notices a figurine that brings a lump to his throat. He walks over to inspect it more closely and feels his heart shatter when he realizes that he is not mistaken. There, proudly displayed amongst your favorite books and ceramic figures, is the porcelain masquerade dancer he had given you for your birthday the first year of your relationship. Gently he picks up the figure and gazes down at it in his hands, struck with the loss and pain of all that could have been but never was.

Shaking his head, Tom replaces the figurine to where it had sat and walks in the direction of your bedroom. The path was familiar yet foreign all at once, and he could not shake the feeling that he was an invader in this flat that he knew so well; he wondered idly what you would say if you ever found out that he had been there. As he makes his way down the hallway, he becomes aware of the sound of running water. He turns his eyes towards the closed door of your bathroom and takes a few, cautious steps towards it.

Only when he realizes that you are in the shower does a trace of panic shoot through Tom’s veins. For a moment he stands stock-still, at a complete loss of what to do. He knows that he should leave but he cannot direct his feet to move towards the living room; instead they seem to move of their own accord towards the chestnut wood that hides you from his view. He sees as if from a distance as his hand reaches out to the handle and turns it slowly downwards.

The door opens. Tom stands rooted to the spot, his breathing escalating as he pushes it quietly forward and peers into the bathroom. Tendrils of steam brush against him as they escape into the hallway, leaving behind a blurry mirror and the fogged glass of your shower. He can distinguish your silhouette and the mere sight of you twists his insides into a vice. He stands there, waves of mingled emotion washing over him as he can only gaze at you from behind the barrier, his thoughts swirling around his head in a daze.

Once upon a time he would have stripped off his clothing and snuck into the shower behind you, smiling impishly as you shrieked with indignation and flung soap at him. Then you would both be laughing and his arms would wrap around your waist, kissing you with such pure joy because he was yours and you were his, and nothing could ever have changed that fact. Soon he would have had you against the wall, your legs wrapped around him as you moaned in pleasure while he took you, the vapor making it hard for either of you to catch your breath. How young you had both been then, and how innocent in the ways of the world.

The water shuts off and the sliding glass door flings open. Tom’s eyes widen as you glance up and start, nearly falling over on the slippery surface under your feet at the shock of seeing him in your doorway. He stands there, torn between the desire to rush forward and help you and the knowledge that if he did, you might very well slap him across the face. He feels a sudden tightness in his pants at the sight of you standing there, all glistening, naked skin and delicate curves.

“Tom! What—what are you doing in here?” you gasp with a trace of hysteria, covering yourself as he finally averts his gaze while you grab the towel on the wall and wrap it under your arms.

“I… I was in town. I thought I’d come visit you.”

You stare at him in wary consternation, dripping wet and only partially shielded behind your towel. Even though he is gracious enough to focus solely on your eyes you hug yourself, feeling completely exposed. You are not blind to the lust barely contained in those eyes of his, and your face burns as you stand there awkwardly on the tile floor, neither of you speaking as you struggle to reign in your sudden rage and humiliation.

“How did you get in here?” you demand breathlessly. Startled, you see him reach into his pockets and lift his set of keys.

“Don’t be angry,” Tom says hastily, just as you find yourself about to open your mouth with a furious retort. Instead you close your eyes and pray for patience. “I couldn’t bring myself to get rid of it,” he added apologetically.

“The proper thing to do would have been to mail it back to me,” you mutter as you decide to act as normally as possible, brushing past him towards the mirror. You grab a hand towel and begin to wipe away the condensation. As the reflection clears you can see Tom behind you, standing exactly as he had the moment you had first caught him staring at you. His eyes are focused on you and you recognize the way he is gripping his fists tightly in his jeans. The memories of what followed moments like these in times past bring a blush to your cheeks, and you look away.

Tom stares at your figure from behind, awestruck by how even more beautiful you have become over time. The white towel barely covers anything and his eyes roam across your physique, taking in the milky skin and the way the fabric bunches around your hips; hips that, long ago, had been his to grab and twirl around to face him whenever he wished. The same hips that he longed to hold onto as he buried his face between them, licking at your wetness until you were screaming his name and bucking your hips in your need for more of him. He shakes his head to rid himself of the thought and half-turns towards the door.

“Maybe I should go,” he says guiltily. Hearing the sadness in his voice softens your heart and you turn around to face him.

“You can stay.” Your voice is quiet but kind and you can see a small smile of relief spread his lips. “Can you just…” you let the sentence trail away, and glance towards the door. He laughs and bows his head slightly, polite as ever as he backs towards it.

“Of course,” Tom leaves and shuts the door behind him, leaving you alone to collapse against the sink, your knees weak. Quickly you turn on the cold water and splash your face with it, then dabble some across your neck and arms to soothe the searing heat that has erupted throughout your body. Never, not once, had you anticipated seeing Tom again. You had conditioned yourself to believe that he was nothing more than a memory, and that his life and yours were now in two different planes of existence.

However much you fought them when feelings of Tom had surfaced, you had not ignored his success. Every TV show he had been in you had watched, and every movie he had been in you had gone to see. Sometimes you had cried from the sheer talent that he displayed, and the way that his smile still gripped your heart and squeezed until you were almost whimpering in pain. There was nothing left, you told yourself over and over, to hold onto. So you had taken the love letters and presents he had given you and boxed them all up, stashing them away in the back of your closet so that you might never see them again. All except the statue of the masquerade woman, the first gift he had ever given you. That gift you couldn’t bear to hide away. Even so, you had trained yourself not to look at it on the book shelf to avoid the bitter sweetness that the porcelain provoked.

You hadn’t noticed till that moment that tears were streaming down your cheeks. Surprised, you wipe them away with your towel and shake your hands briskly. Get a grip on yourself, you think desperately. From the kitchen you hear clanging noises and, knowing that Tom is only a wall away, feel your arms fall limply by your sides again. There was no point in trying to pretend that everything was okay between the two of you. Only too well did you recall the last time you had spoken to each other; the mere memory of that day brought a cringe to your face. Deliberately, as slowly as possible to delay the moment when you must reapply your game face, you dry yourself off and pull on the house clothes you now regretted having chosen. Taking in your appearance in the mirror and seeing yourself in faded, flannel pajama bottoms and—oh God, you had grabbed one of his old university shirts to wear and not thought twice about it. Now you hold it in your hands and curse the world before pulling it over your head and opening the bathroom door.

In the kitchen you find Tom leaning against the stove, his arms crossed. They fall to his sides at your approach and he glances at the burners behind him. “I figured we could do with some tea,” he explains, motioning towards the kettle sitting on the red-hot steel coil. You nod your head, unsure of what exactly to say as you lean against the counter, chewing your bottom lip. When you next meet his gaze he is grinning to himself.

“What?” you ask him, nettled.

“I… I like your shirt,” he finally says, suppressing a laugh. You narrow your eyes.

“It’s comfortable and nurses aren’t exactly rolling in the dough,” you reply defensively. His face goes slack and you realize that he is afraid of having hurt your feelings. Before he can apologize you cut him off. “Don’t worry, I’m just—I’m just a bit tetchy. My ex fiancée whom I haven’t spoken to in five years just walked in on me showering.”

“Aah,” Tom grins, managing a sheepish expression that was hardly convincing. “I’m truly sorry about that, I wasn’t thinking clearly and when you didn’t answer the door and I just…” his voice trails off and you begin chewing your lip again. He notices this and smirks. “You still do that.”

“Do what?” you ask distractedly.

“Chew your lip when you’re nervous. You always did that before.”

“Yeah well, people don’t often change,” you reply with a bit more acidity than you’d intended. Tom’s teasing smile lessens into one of sadness.

“Do you hate me?” he asks. He sounds so like a frightened child that the fire kindling inside of you gutters and goes out.

“No,” you admit, your eyes downcast. “I could never hate you, Tom. But I won’t lie and say I’m not hurt still.”

Tom nods, looking down at his boots. You find yourself taking in his appearance, and noting the differences of the Tom that you had known and the Tom that now stood before you. When you had been together he was thinner, with a chubbier face and a slightly awkward way of holding himself. He dressed in flannels and baggy shirts and old jeans then, and his blonde curls were untamed. This man who stood in your kitchen was as different from that boy as he could possibly be. His hair was ginger and he had a perfectly sculpted beard, which in and of itself was a shock. You’d often asked him to grow out some facial hair but he’d never wanted to, so you’d only ever known him clean shaven. Underneath the beard was a sculpted face, and the rest of his body appeared to be lean and toned. Even his clothing was impressive, with dark blue pants, a white shirt and black cardigan with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Standing in the same room as him felt an insult to his new-found status and you shift uncomfortably, wishing you were wearing anything but your oldest lounging clothes.

“I’ve missed you,” Tom finally says. He lifts his eyes and they find yours, and the expression on his face threatens to tear down the walls that had, over time, been constructed around your heart to defend yourself from pain like this. No, no, no!

“Tom—“ you begin to say, but he interrupts you.

“I’ve missed you so much that I can’t stand it. Everywhere I go I think of how much you would love to be there and see the sights that I get to witness, but have no right to enjoy. Not when I remember what happened to us.”

Your mouth opens but no sound comes out. You feel like you are floundering in a sea of memories all surfacing at once, memories that you had long ago buried deep in the recesses of your mind. The first time you had kissed, and the ensuing awkward giggles as your noses had collided painfully. When he had laid you down on your bed and taken your innocence, and how you had cried in his arms afterwards. How he had gotten down on one knee and asked you to be his wife, and you had bowled him over in your excited laughter before saying yes. That you two had stood in this very kitchen that final night, crying and screaming at each other before he’d gathered up his things and left, never to come back. The same tears that had flooded you then threatened to spill over now, but you bite your tongue to keep them in check.

“You left,” is all you can bring yourself to say.

“And that was the biggest mistake of my life. Please, give me another chance.” His eyes bore into yours and he rushes towards you suddenly, attempting to take your hands. You pull them from his grasp and back away, shaking your head.

“You chose the theatre over me,” you whisper, the years of rejection and pain bubbling to the surface. “You were the one who decided we weren’t worth trying to make work.”

“Please,” he repeats in a whisper, the tears in his eyes mirroring yours. “Forgive me. I was young and ignorant, and I thought I had the world at my feet. I was too blind to see that the most important component of my life was already a part of me: You.”

“Please don’t,” it’s your turn to beg as he finally manages to grasp your hands in his. The touch of him triggers flashbacks and you vividly remember lying on the sofa for days, clutching the same shirt you now wore in your trembling hands and burying your face in the soft material, clinging to Tom’s scent until finally it had faded, gone just as steadfastly as he was. You remember the agony of the ensuing months, and how the friends and family in your life had become so worried that they threatened to force you to see a therapist. So you had dragged yourself out of the stupor, caught up in your neglected nursing classes, and forged a new life where Tom Hiddleston had no role. This state of being had been so carefully constructed that even as you watched his fame soar from afar you managed to convince yourself that somehow it had all been a horrible nightmare.

Yet you hadn’t been with anyone since then. You'd not even let another man touch you in the whole of five years, cringing away at the notion of letting someone else get too deep under your skin again.

“Let me prove to you that I mean what I say,” he interrupts your increasingly panicked thoughts. “Give me another chance.”

“You—“ the words die in your throat as you take in his visage. His clothes alone probably equaled the amount you paid in rent each month. Not even four months ago you had seen him in a movie called The Avengers, which had smashed box office records and made his name and image impossible to ignore. Women at work wore Loki shirts under their scrubs, and wondered aloud what sex with that Tom Hiddleston might be like. Their words pierced you like shards of ice and you had learned to avoid talking to any of them, as every time his name was mentioned you’d lost control of your breathing. The man who stood before you was not the Tom that you had known. This new Tom intimidated you. “You shouldn’t have come,” your voice breaks at the words and you walk towards the living room to hide your face from his gaze. You find yourself in front of the bookshelf, eyes locked on the masquerade dancer he had given you in a happier life. Soon her purple and gold gown is obscured by a haze of tears which stream silently down your cheeks.

A warm hand is placed on your shoulder. You do not shrug it away, but neither do you turn to face Tom as he leans his head forward so that he can see the side of your face. “I know that I hurt you. I know that I hurt you so deeply that you can probably never forgive me. All I ask is that you allow me the chance to try and make it up to you. Let me earn your trust again. I beg of you to please let me try.”

A sob escapes your throat before you can swallow it back down and your hands fly to your face as you try in desperation to gain control of your anguish. If only he would look away, you think in blind panic as the sobs gain in intensity until you can't hold them in anymore. You begin to weep uncontrollably. Immediately you find yourself wrapped in a strong pair of arms, your face resting against Tom’s chest. He wears cologne now, you notice dazedly before becoming lost in your emotions. The tears soak his white shirt and moisten his chest but he doesn’t seem to care in the slightest as he rocks you in his arms, running one hand slowly up and down your back while the other cradles your head. He whispers soothing words in your ears, his breath stirring your hair as he does so. When you start to pound on his chest he does not flinch or attempt to stop your fists, but merely continues to hold you tightly within his arms. After a while your tears dry up and all of the stamina seeps out of your muscles. The only thing keeping you upright is Tom’s strength, and he leads you gently towards the sofa, pulling you down so that you are sitting beside him.

“I love you,” he murmurs. The words plunge into your soul and twist agonizingly; fresh tears well up but before they can spill he has grasped your face between his warm hands. “I love you and I despise myself that I was the one who ruined all that was wonderful about you. No one else I have met can hold a candle to your beauty, your intelligence, your sweetness. There is no one out there for me but you, and I swear by all that I have that I will wait for you. I will wait forever if that’s what it takes to prove I am a changed man.”

The sincerity in his words stem your tears. You watch him from red, puffy eyes as you sit there in your ancient pajamas, with half-dried hair that is certainly doing nothing for your appearance. Despite all of this Tom is watching you with such tenderness and love that his expression is blinding, as if you are staring down the sun. Gradually a smile breaks across his face—a true smile, like the ones you had always known, and you could see the boy Tom you had loved under that ginger beard and the designer clothes. Soon you are both laughing, and the sensation was like a balm upon your soul.

“May I take you to lunch after tea?” Tom asks, the corners of his eyes crinkling. He has aged so beautifully, you find yourself thinking in quiet awe. Somewhere in the ruins of the walls surrounding your heart, you can feel a pair of warm hands clearing away the rubble and reaching out towards the vulnerable object, whispering for you to allow yourself to trust again. You smile warily back at him.

“I have to get ready first, I look awful,” you half-laugh, glancing down at yourself.

“I’ve never seen anyone more dazzling.”

A few more tears fall down your cheeks at his words, and Tom leans over to kiss them away. You let him, and feel the hands in your chest begin the process of rebuilding your broken heart.


End file.
